Monthly Archives: May 2007

About a month ago things became really hectic. I stopped writing and disappeared from the Stanford community. This became kind of cloudy and I had to reassess a lot. I was exhausted and had to get some priorities in line. I was definitely on the grind, hustling to make things happen. At the same time, I was still reading some dense and difficult theoretical works and thinking about my research. I have stacks of works to review, about 30 books from the library. I’m going to plow through them before August, I promise myself. Right now, I’m juggling two jobs: temping at various sites and my research assistant position at Stanford. I’m still saving and raising money for my trip. I’m focusing on spending time with my family and real friends, because I won’t see them for a year when I go to Egypt.

After the storm had passed, I attended a few events that reminded me of the reason why I am taking this path. One was a conference on the Islamic library and the other an awards dinner for Muslim scholars and entreprenuers. Over the past three years, I have felt like I paid a huge cost. I worked myself into exhaustion. Grad school is trying, and my trade is an isolating field. I didn’t want to write some woe is me blogs. Instead, I focused on commenting on blogs. Sometimes what I read was depressing, other times they present me with challenges that are motivating. But overall, I guess I am aware of the obstacles that I face and I have to have faith that it is worth all the efforts of trying to overcome them. In doing so, maybe we can encourage each other to face our struggles and be better by doing better.

So this is hell. I’d never have believed it. You remember all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the “burning marl.” Old wives’ tales! There’s no need for red-hot pokers. Hell is other people!

Jean-Paul Sartre

Yes I said it. I’m tired. Tired of the insanity. I am sort of speechless and really can’t articulate what I’m upset about. But the madness that is rampant in the world is disturbing. I don’t mean the kind of harmless insanity, but the diabolical, self-righteous insanity. It bothers me that some twisted leaders are using media to indoctrinate children and radicalize them. It is bad enough that they indoctrinate weak minded adult men. People are in denial about the cult of martyrdom that exists in some cultures. I haven’t been to Palestine, so I don’t know the extent of these attitudes in the occupied territories.

The show reminds me that ideologies that justify terrorism (and violence) is spreading in the Muslim world. Not to be mean or racist, but in the 90s many of us Muslims considered suicide bombings a tactic used by Palestinians for their nationalist cause. Every Muslim I knew considered terrorism un-Islamic. We refused to accept the fact that Muslim leaders were manipulating the religion to justify send young men out to die. Over time, the occurences increased and spread to places like the Philipines, Chechnya, London, India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Egypt, Iraq, etc… I have to call this the mainstreaming of terrorism. And the acts are so widespread that I can’t buy into the lame conspiracy theories that deny that Muslims are committing atrocities.

The vast majority of Muslims do not agree with terrorism. And in fact, we are more in danger of terrorist violence than non-Muslims. If you look at the casualty figures, you’ll see that more Muslims are killed than anybody else. I’m just afraid that if we stand by silently, that the mainstreaming of terrorism will continue to spread. Terrorism is just one of the issues that wears me down. Violence against women, racism, sectarianism, ethnic violence, tribalism, exploitation, corruption, backwardness, injustice, political ineptitude, repression, oppression, marginalisation, isolation, etc…. all these social ills are exhausting.I’m not saying I’m out for the count a little fatigue can be good. But sometimes I feel like I need a breather from all the drama.

The typical mother puts in a 92-hour work week, it said, working 40 hours at base pay and 52 hours overtime.

One of the struggles that many housewives face is the perception that their husbands have of their work. For instance, there are many cases where women experience berating husbands who believe they do nothing all day while the husbands go out toil in the dog eat dog world. I guess they need to consider the many jobs that housewives juggle:

I am not saying that men don’t perform jobs at home. They do: investor, yardwork, handymen, car repair, sometimes babysitter, driver, financial and business consultant (always giving out advice on finances and how to run a better house), psychologist (listening to his wife complain), taste tester (somebody’s got to eat the food). There should be a study to show how much both sides contribute to a household. What about immeasurable things? Maybe couples would better appreciate each other.

I cut a several inches off my hair, which means the volume is kind of high. So I was sitting on the train. Two youths who clearly were followers of the hyphey movement (dreads and gold fronts and all) passed by with a lame pick up line, “Oh, damn, Erica Badu!” One goaded the other to try to holla, but I guess they thought wisely against it. The signs were all there that both were likely to get shut down because I had that granola-organic-natural-positive-sistah vibe. I don’t really buy it, cause maybe it was just San Francisco and the fog blew out my flat iron. Anyways, that wasn’t the point of the story. The point of the story is about languages and the assumption that people don’t understand.

So, a few stops down. Two Mexican-American men. I’m not sure if they received the hyphen and were naturalized citizens. But they passed by. My Spanish is rusty, but I understood much of what they said. “Where are we going to sit?” “Here! Here! Behind the Black girl!” “She has a lot of hair.” “She’s pretty” They made a few more comments about my hair and giggled like school girls.

During my first week as a waitress years back, I remember one of the bussers asking our co-worker “Te gustas la morena?” (Do you like the dark girl). Our co-worker responded, “No.” For the year that I worked there, I was La Morena. And when my friend came to work there, they were stumped to find her a name because she was black to. I didn’t tell them right away that I spoke some Spanish. The guys used to cuss us out in Spanish and smile in our face. I understood the foulness coming out of their mouth and at first pretended to ignore them. Then I began the wordplay and mind games in the kitchen language that was a blend between English and Spanish.

It seems as if many Spanish speakers forget that Spanish is taught in high schools. Some of us picked up Spanish from friends and caretakers. In California, Mexican Americans seem to assume that if you are black you can’t possibly know Spanish. I guess it escapes them that there are Panamanians and Dominicans who are black. Besides, sometimes even when you don’t understand what people are saying, you can often detect that they are talking about you.

Middle Easterners should take heed. For example, more and more Americans are learning Arabic. Even though I only know limited colloquial Arabic, I often know enough to know if an Arab is talking about me. My Turkish boss told me that one time, he and a friend were talking about an American woman in Turkish. The woman then told them off in Turkish. She learned Turkish because she had married a Turk. They learned their lesson to assume that a blond haired blue eyed, Northern European looking woman could not understand the lewdness that was spewing from their mouths.

Asians are not immune. They often talk about us Black folks right in front of us. One of my friends returned a video at DeAnza college. Two Vietnamese girls working at the desk cracked some jokes about the guy. He then told them in perfect Vietnamese that his mother was Vietnamese. He then told them, they never tell by someone’s looks if they know Vietnamese and that it was rude to talk about someone in front of them.

I have traveled abroad where few people spoke English. One time in Morocco, a bunch of us girls were chatting in a packed taxi with other passengers. One Moroccan young man told us to shut up. Maybe we were annoying and loud. But perhaps there was an anxiety that we were talking about him and the other Moroccan men. I admit that the anxiety comes from a real place. But, I have never said condescending statements, objectified someone, or ridiculed a non-English speaker in English right in front of their faces. It’s rude and disrespectful and widens the gaps that divide us all.

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